


Repaid

by ImpOfPerversity



Series: Devastation-verse [12]
Category: Baroque Cycle - Neal Stephenson, Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-08-23
Updated: 2004-08-23
Packaged: 2018-10-21 07:01:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10680138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpOfPerversity/pseuds/ImpOfPerversity





	Repaid

There was something about Jack Shaftoe's smile that was distracting in the extreme, something that Jack Sparrow had seldom encountered in his many lovers' varied visages, and that he found simultaneously disturbing and arousing; as nearly as he could make out, it was a combination of wickedness, lust and a strange vulnerable sweetness, which made Jack want to put both his hands on Jack Shaftoe's face and simply kiss him; and after all he could do as he wished, surely, for it was his bed in which they both swung, the beam above them creaking under their combined weight, and his bed in which they pressed close, both of them naked, Jack Shaftoe's thigh pushed up between Jack's legs and his hands bussing warmth back into Jack's storm-chilled flesh, and he made the most tantalising sounds when Jack was kissing him -- sounds that spoke very little of protest, and a great deal of delight -- and returned the kiss perfectly, gentle and sensual and altogether wonderfully surprising, as though he weren't a hard-bitten mercenary with a colourful reputation (not least for heterosexuality, but Jack Sparrow had decided, within an hour or so of making Shaftoe's acquaintance in that Southwark brothel, to approach that as a _challenge_ , rather than a prohibition); as though he felt tenderness and affection for Jack, not discounting the lust that was making him lay his lean, warm body against Jack's, bringing his hand up under Jack's salt-stiff hair to cup his head as they kissed, running that agile and promising tongue along the inside of Jack's lips and lapping at the corner of his mouth: Jack took one hand from Shaftoe's flushed face and ran it slowly down the rough stubble of his chin, the smoother skin of his throat, down over his sparsely-haired chest -- an endearingly boyish noise when Jack's thumb flicked gently at his nipple -- and down over his ribs, lower ... Jack carried on kissing, as slow and sweet as he'd have kissed a young maid (albeit one foolish enough to welcome a kiss from Captain Jack Sparrow) and the kiss was no less enjoyable for its incongruity; they were kissing with their eyes open and Shaftoe was watching him, evidently relishing Jack's reaction to his kisses and caresses -- for it couldn't be denied that Jack's cock was pushing against Shaftoe's thigh, quite of its own accord, slick and hot and hard; but that wasn't all of it, for the soft kiss and his aching prick and the way he was wriggling ever closer to Shaftoe, the way he couldn't get close enough, were all part of the same thing, and it wasn't a thing that Jack recognised, so he didn't blame Shaftoe for feeling pleased with himself for being the cause of it -- and Jack stared back into Shaftoe's eyes, letting his hand move lower and feeling Jack Shaftoe tense against him as his fingers brushed scar tissue and the seamed, cauterised remains of Shaftoe's prick; Jack swallowed thickly at the very thought of the Incident in Dunkirk, and for some reason (perhaps the simple fact of Half-Cocked Jack's proximity to his own undamaged self) it seemed more terrible, more agonising and unfair a fate than ever; but Jack fought back all those thoughts, and stared into Jack Shaftoe's eyes, and kissed him softly as his fingers explored, finding out exactly what made Shaftoe flinch and what made him writhe, and grin against Jack's mouth; and while it was clear to Jack that he was always going to be the one doing the fucking, Shaftoe's body was sufficiently responsive that he thought he might be able to introduce a fair bit of variety, just to spice things up a little; then, abruptly, Shaftoe was leaning over him -- the cot tilting precariously at his suddenness -- and deepening the kiss, his teeth testing Jack's lips less gently than before, and his wide, hot, hard-palmed hand, oh Christ, was pushing at Jack's thigh, bringing his knee up so that Shaftoe's hand could slip behind and stroke the firm curve of Jack's arse; and the best thing about all this, the thing that made it indubitably Shaftoe and not some nameless stevedore or tavern whore, was that Jack Shaftoe's eyes were still open, and he was still staring at Jack, watching Jack with such fascination, as though Jack's reaction to having his arse groped were something worth watching; so Jack made sure that it _was_ , for more than anything right now he dreaded the thought that Shaftoe, thinking him unmoved or uninterested, might stop what he was doing; that Shaftoe's hand might not anchor on the swell of his buttock, with his little finger just brushing the cleft, and pull so that Jack's knee was propped atop Jack Shaftoe's muscular thigh, his cock rearing against his own belly, and Shaftoe's hand reaching round to cup his balls; and Shaftoe still kissing him, not letting him make one single suggestion, demand, plea, but simply wrapping his tongue around Jack's, kissing him hungrily and fiercely and looking at him all bright-eyed and amused, as though -- on top of everything else -- they were sharing a hilarious private joke; and Jack Sparrow, in the stammering privacy of his own thoughts, cursed that fucking barber-surgeon, because at this moment he really, really wanted Jack Shaftoe to fuck him, hard and deep, the two of them laughing out loud with the sheer joy of it, and it was not bloody fair that Shaftoe'd been deprived of the means of getting his own back on Jack Sparrow for that night in Southwark; Jack felt cheated, and _empty_ , and oh how he yearned -- knowing it futile and unjust -- to be taken and fucked, the way he'd taken Shaftoe the other night; but Shaftoe's mouth was still devouring him, and Shaftoe's fingers were winding boldly around his aching cock, pumping hard, and Shaftoe's other hand, salty with storm-water from Jack's hair, pushed at Jack's mouth, next to Shaftoe's own tongue, and Jack, all weak with proud excitement ( _he'd_ inspired Jack Shaftoe to this; _he'd_ set him on this path, t'other night, and oh but hadn't he learned fast and well?) licked and lapped at Shaftoe's wet fingers, getting them wetter; it was hard not to let his eyes drift closed, because he was drowning, but then Shaftoe's finger found its way (not gently, but compellingly) inside Jack and his eyes shot open like an automaton's; and Jack Shaftoe chuckled into the kiss, let Jack twist and open and push himself onto two fingers now, and all the while his hand did clever things to Jack's straining cock, which seemed to crave the soft impact of Shaftoe's hip as much as the pull of his hand; and Jack Shaftoe's three thieving, agile fingers found that spot and tormented it, so that Jack went groaning and slack-mouthed against Shaftoe, and his eyes flickered shut again; but then Shaftoe drew back from the kiss, just breathing, and Jack at once opened his eyes, for he wanted Shaftoe to see what he had wrought; and Jack Shaftoe stared at him with wonderment and simple pride as his climax overcame him.


End file.
